Senso (And Other Stories) Read online

  I was living in virtual solitude. My social circle had already been getting gradually more restricted, because for some time now the noble families of Trentino, opposed to the count’s political opinions, had very politely but firmly been keeping their distance. The young people, being fervently nationalist, unceremoniously avoided us, indeed hated us. Local officials, not knowing how the war would end, and wary of compromising themselves one way or another, now avoided setting foot in our house. So, we were seeing a few pro-Austrian aristocrats, all of them penniless and parasitic, and a few high-ranking Tyrolese officials, who were crass, pig-headed and stank of beer and cheap tobacco. Army officers no longer had any free time to spare, nor any desire to spend it in my company.

  My relationship with Remigio, which everybody but my husband knew about, had increased my isolation – an isolation that I actually welcomed, indeed needed, given the state of mind I had been living in for some while. Remigio had not written again since that memorable letter. I imagined him facing perils that seemed all the more horrible for being uncertain. I could perhaps have lived with the sure risks of battle, but the suspense of not knowing whether my lover was fighting or not was driving me mad. I wrote to Verona to a general I knew, to two colonels, then to one of those junior officers who had so long courted me in Venice: I received no reply. I sent Remigio countless letters: he never answered.

  Meanwhile, hostilities began: civilian life was overridden; the railways and roads were solely for the use of munitions wagons, ambulance carts and supply trucks; of cavalry brigades that went by amid clouds of dust, artillery units that made the houses shake, and infantry regiments that kept coming, one after another, in an endless winding column, creeping along like a snake trying to encompass the whole world within its enormous coils.

  One breathlessly hot morning, 26th June, came the first news of a dreadful battle: Austria was defeated, with ten thousand dead, twenty thousand wounded, the standards lost, and Verona, still ours, but, like the other strongholds, close to surrendering to the Italians’ diabolical onslaught.

  My husband was in the country and was to be away for a week.

  I rang furiously; the maid did not come. I rang again; the butler appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Are you all asleep? Lazy wretches! Send me the coachman, at once, do you hear?

  A few minutes later an apprehensive-looking Giacomo arrived, buttoning up his livery.

  ‘How many miles is it from here to Verona?’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Well?’ I said, losing my temper.

  Giacomo made his calculations. ‘From here to Rovereto, about fourteen. From Rovereto to Verona must be … I don’t know … with two good horses it would be ten hours, give or take a little, without counting the stops.’

  ‘You’ve never driven with the horses from Trento to Verona?’

  ‘No, signora contessa. I’ve done the journey from Rovereto to Verona.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I know myself that it’s two hours to Rovereto from here.’

  ‘Forgive me, signora contessa, two and a half.’

  ‘So two and ten makes twelve in total.’

  ‘Let’s say thirteen, signora contessa, and going at a good pace.’

  ‘How many horses has the count taken with him?’

  ‘His usual black mare.’

  ‘So there are four in the stables.’

  ‘Yes, signora contessa: Fanny, Candida, Lampo and the stallion.’

  ‘Could you harness all four of them?’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes, together.’

  Giacomo smiled with a benevolently pitying look. ‘I’m sorry, signora contessa, that can’t be done. The stallion …’

  ‘Well, then, harness the other three.’

  ‘Poor Lampo is lame, and can’t even manage a brisk walk.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, harness Fanny and Candida as usual,’ I shouted, stamping my feet. Then I added, ‘For tomorrow morning, at four.’

  ‘As you wish, signora contessa. And, forgive me, so that I know how much fodder to take, where are we going?’

  ‘To Verona.’

  ‘Verona! God help us! In how many days?’

  ‘By evening.’

  ‘Forgive me, signora contessa, but that’s just not possible.’

  ‘And I insist on it, do you understand?’

  I replied in such an imperious tone that the poor man scarcely had the courage to stammer out, ‘Have a heart, signora contessa. It’ll be the death of both horses, and the master will throw me out into the street.’

  ‘I take full responsibility. Do as you’re told and don’t worry about anything else.’ And I gave him four gold coins. ‘I’ll give you twice as much on our return, on condition that you don’t breathe a word to anybody.’

  ‘There’s no danger of that. But what about the chaos on the roads – the wagons and cannons, unruly soldiers, trouble from the police?’

  ‘I’ll worry about that.’

  Giacomo bowed his head, resigned but not convinced.

  ‘What time will we get to Verona?’

  ‘That’s in the hands of Providence, signora contessa. And it’ll be a miracle if we all get there alive – you, signora contessa, me, and the two poor beasts. For me, it doesn’t matter, but for you and the horses!’

  ‘Well, at four o’clock then, and not a word. If you hold your tongue, you shall have what I promised. If you talk, I’ll sack you on the spot, with no wages. Is that clear? See to it that everyone, including the chambermaid, thinks we’re going to see Marchesa Giulia at San Michele.’

  Wearing a gloomy expression, Giacomo bowed and left the room.

  At dawn I was in the carriage, and on my way. I had drawn the curtains over the windows, and out of a corner I watched the gasping dusty foot-soldiers, who lined up along the ditches, thinking there was some important person in the coach; some of them gave a military salute.

  From time to time, to my intense annoyance, we had to slow down, or actually stop for a few minutes to wait for heavy swaying wagons to get out of our way. However, things went much better than Giacomo had predicted. A mounted police patrol stopped the carriage, but when the sergeant saw there was a lady inside he contented himself with calling out chivalrously, ‘Safe journey!’ After Rovereto, at Pieve, we stopped to rest a little. Then, having unhitched the mares at Borghetto, for they could take no more, we spent a good three hours there that to me felt like three years, being cooped up inside the carriage as I was, listening to the complaining and swearing of the squads of soldiers who would collapse on the ground near the inn for a few moments, beneath the meagre shade of the stunted trees, to eat a crust of bread and take a swig of water. I must have called Giacomo ten times. He came to the window looking extremely disgruntled, forcing himself to appear calm. Then raising his hat, he kept saying, ‘Another ten minutes, signora contessa.’

  Eventually, we set off again, thank God. The River Adige, which we drove alongside, was almost dry; the fields looked parched; the road gleamed with a blinding whiteness; there was not a cloud to be seen in the blue skies. The sides of the carriage were burning hot and I felt suffocated in that oppressive heat and thick dust. My forehead was beaded with sweat, and I drummed my feet with impatience. I did not spare Chiusa a glance, but listened for the crack of Giacomo’s whip. At Pescantina we stopped again for fresh horses: it was another ten long miles to Verona and the poor beasts could hardly walk. The sun had gone down in a fiery blaze. And still there were wagons and soldiers, police patrols, and the dust, with a deafening din and a screech of metal at times, and at other times a confused and fearful murmur, in which it was possible to distinguish groans and curses and verses of lewd songs sung by muffled voices. So far, we had been travelling with the tide of men and vehicles, now we passed a number of ambulance carts coming towards us, and several companies of walking wounded, soldiers with their arms in slings, and with bandages round their heads, pale-faced, stooped, limping, and in tatt
ers. And Remigio? Remigio? I shouted to Giacomo to use the whip-handle on the horses. It was beginning to get dark.

  We reached the walls of Verona at about nine. And so great was the panic, so great the confusion, that no one paid any attention to the carriage, and we were able to get to the Torre di Londra hotel without further hindrance. There was not a room to be had, not so much as a corner to sleep in, either in the hotel, or, so I was assured, in any other lodging house in the city: they had all been requisitioned for officers. The horses were tied up in the courtyard, more dead than alive; Giacomo was to attend to them. I jumped out of the carriage at last.

  I had some young ragamuffin take me to number 147 in Via Santo Stefano. We had to walk up and down the street several times, looking above the doorways, before we were able to discern the number of the house by the glimmer of the few streetlights.

  If Remigio was at home, I wanted to surprise him. My limbs were all atremble with impatience and desire, but he might be in bed, he might be with someone, and although I desperately wanted to see him at once, yet I felt I ought to send the boy on ahead as a scout. He was crafty and understood immediately: he was to ring and ask for the lieutenant on a matter of the utmost urgency, insist that he open the door, go upstairs and tell him some story – for instance, that a gentleman whose name he had forgotten, who was staying at the Torre di Londra hotel, wanted news of his health, without delay. As the boy came out he was to leave open the door to Remigio’s lodgings, as well as the street door. I hid by the side of the house, in an alleyway running from the road down to the river.

  The boy rang the bell.

  An angry voice came from the top floor.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is Lieutenant Ruz there?’

  ‘It’s the other bell, the middle one. Damn you!’

  The boy rang the other bell. A minute went by that seemed to last for ever, and no one appeared. The boy rang again. Then from the second floor a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is Lieutenant Ruz there?’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t see anybody.’

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, after nine.’

  ‘No, this evening. Are you afraid of burglars?’

  Another minute went by, and at last the door opened.

  There was Remigio! My heart was bursting with joy.

  My eyes grew clouded and I had to lean against the wall for support. Shortly afterwards the boy returned. Remigio had sent him packing, but he had managed to leave both doors ajar. I regained control of myself, gave the cunning lad a few coins, and slipped into the house. I had thought to bring some matches with me: on the second floor landing there were two doors, with Remigio’s visiting card pinned above one of them. I pushed it and it swung open, and without making a sound I entered a room that was practically dark. This was the culmination of all my hopes: I could already feel the arms of my lover – the man for whom I would unhesitatingly have given everything I owned, including my life – crushing me to his broad chest. I could feel his teeth biting into my skin, and I was overwhelmed in anticipation with ineffable bliss.

  I felt weak with relief, and had to sit down on a chair in the hall. Hearing and seeing as if in a deep dream, I had lost all sense of reality. But someone nearby was laughing and laughing: it was a woman’s laughter, shrill, coarse and boisterous, and it gradually roused me. I listened, rising from my seat, and, holding my breath, approached a door that stood wide open, through which I could see into a huge, brightly lit room. I was standing in shadow, out of sight. Oh, why did God not strike me blind at that moment? There was a table with the remains of a meal on it. Beyond the table was a big green sofa: there lay Remigio, playfully tickling a girl’s armpit. She was hooting and shrieking with laughter, wriggling and writhing all over, trying in vain to free herself from his clutches, and he was kissing her on the arms, the neck, the nape – wherever he could.

  I was incapable of moving: I was nailed to the spot, my eyes transfixed, my ears straining to hear, my throat dry.

  The man, tiring of this game, grabbed the girl by the wrist and sat her on his lap. Then they began talking, often breaking off for caresses and playfulness. I heard the words, but their meaning escaped me. Suddenly the woman said my name.

  ‘Show me the pictures of Contessa Livia.’

  ‘You’ve seen them so many times already.’

  ‘Show them to me, please.’

  Without getting up from the sofa, the man lifted the edge of the tablecloth, opened the drawer of the table, and took out some papers. The girl, who had now turned serious, searched through them for the photographs and gazed at them for a long time.

  Then she said, ‘Is Contessa Livia beautiful?’

  ‘You can see she is.’

  ‘You don’t understand: I want to know whether you think she’s more beautiful than I am.’

  ‘To me, no woman could be more beautiful than you.’

  ‘Look, in this photograph, her ballgown leaves her arms and shoulders completely bare, right down to here.’ And the young girl rearranged her blouse, holding up the picture for comparison.

  ‘Look, do you think I’m more beautiful?’

  The man kissed her between her breasts. ‘A thousand times more beautiful!’ he exclaimed.

  The girl stood by the lamp, staring at the man, who smiled at her, and she picked up the four pictures one by one and very slowly tore each of them into four pieces and let the shreds drop on to the table, amid the plates and glasses. The man kept smiling.

  ‘But you also tell her that you love her, you devil.’

  ‘You know I say it to her as little as possible. But I need her, and we would not be here together, darling, if she hadn’t given me that money I told you about. Those wretched doctors made me pay dearly for my life.’

  ‘How much were you left with?’

  ‘Five hundred florins, some of which is already spent. I need to write to my treasure-house in Trento: one gold coin for every sweet word.’

  ‘And yet,’ said the woman, her eyes filled with tears, ‘and yet it upsets me.’

  The man drew her very close to him on the green sofa, murmuring, ‘Now, I don’t want any tears.’

  At that point I had a complete change of heart: love turned to loathing. I found myself in the street, not knowing where I was going. I was jostled by groups of soldiers that passed me in the darkness. Stretchers went by, from which came long drawn-out groans or shrill cries of pain, and I saw a few scuttling townsfolk, a few frightened peasants. No one paid any attention to me, as I hugged close to the walls of the houses, dressed all in black with a thick veil over my face. I came to a broad avenue planted with shadowy trees, where the river, flowing on my right, cooled the breathless air a little. The water was almost lost in the shadows, but I was not tempted, even for one second, to commit suicide. Although I was not in the least aware of it, an ugly idea, as yet vague and indistinct, had already germinated within me, and it gradually invaded my heart and mind entirely: the idea of revenge.

  I had given everything to that man. He had been my life. Without him, I had felt as though I would die; with him, I had been in heaven. And he gave his heart and kisses to another woman! The entire scene I had just witnessed was conjured up before me; I could still see that wanton lust before my very eyes. It was intolerable! For his sake I had come running, surmounting every obstacle, scorning every danger, casting my good name into the mud. I had come running to help him, to comfort him, and I find him safe and sound, more handsome than ever, in someone else’s arms! And the pair of them – he who owes me everything, and his sweetheart – insult my dignity and love, and deride and ridicule me. And it is I who am paying for their orgies! That blonde minx brazenly boasts of being more beautiful than me, and (this was the supreme insult that really rankled) he himself proclaims her more beautiful!

  All this emotion had left me weak: the anger boiling inside me had afflicted my whole body with a burning fever tha
t made my legs tremble. I did not know where I was. I would not, could not, ask some passer-by to take me back to the inn, to be shut up inside the carriage again. I sat down on the riverbank, staring up at the dark sky. Unable to rest, I went back into the city-streets. I was going out of my mind. I was dropping with exhaustion, and had not eaten for eighteen hours. I happened to find myself outside a modest coffee-house. I passed in front of the window several times; it looked empty, so I went inside and sat down in the farthest and darkest corner, and ordered something.

  In the opposite corner, lying stretched out on the narrow red banquette that ran all the way round that huge, damp, dimly lit, low-ceilinged room were two soldiers, smoking and yawning. Shortly afterwards another two officers came in: a tall, thin young man of maybe nineteen, with a neat moustache; and a stocky, thick-set fellow of about forty, who had a purple face, all lumps and warts, and coal-black, bushy eyebrows, while the moustaches under his big nose were so thick and coarse they looked like horsehair. He had in his mouth a short-stemmed Bohemian pipe with an enormous bowl that issued great clouds of smoke, rising one after the other, to darken the ceiling.

  The young man went straight over to greet the officers in the corner. I heard him say, ‘In the space of two hours I’ve seen forty men die on the operating table under the knife – the surgeons were tossing aside arms and legs as though playing ball, and they were trepanning and mending heads …’